


fourteen weeks

by PurpleLex



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Foggy Nelson (mentioned) - Freeform, Marci Stahl (mentioned) - Freeform, dog sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleLex/pseuds/PurpleLex
Summary: [tumblr prompt: "something where Frank has a dog and because said dog has pretty much adopted Karen as his second owner, Karen often times takes care of the dog when he's away/busier than usual. And it doesn't take long for someone to start putting two and two together about who the dogs main owner is." ]





	fourteen weeks

 

_week one–_

 

It’s closer to midnight than sunset when Karen’s unlocking her door, shuffling inside and leaning back against the solid wood tiredly to kick off her heels. As soon as she’s sent the second one flying somewhere towards the back of the couch, something furry and solid knocks against her shins. She yelps as it starts licking one of her knees.

Frank pokes his head out from the bright bathroom’s doorway. “Hey,” he calls firmly. A command distinctly not meant for her.

The dog prances back a few steps, opening up enough space for Karen to move along the wall and flip on the light switch to illuminate the apartment. A friendly gray pit-bull pants up at her with a wagging tail and wide grin. She presses a hand against her pounding heart for a moment before walking to the bathroom, one eye peering frequently at the dog. It was a good thing he’d started keeping a semi-permanent phone to give her the heads up with whenever he was planning on stopping by her place – otherwise, she might’ve screamed.

“He doesn’t bite.”

“Didn’t even bark,” she replies with a head shake at the blood he still has to wash off his arms as he finishes threading a needle for a decently deep cut along bicep. “I’m not afraid of him, he just startled me. Your text didn’t mention a dog.”

“Sorry. Recent companion,” Frank simply shrugs with a hint of a frown, focused on patching himself up.

“Your new companion have a name? Here, give it–” Karen reaches out once he starts eyeing how to best approach his one-handed stitching procedure. Hesitantly, he drops the needle into her palm. She steps close with a steadying hand around the cut. Same as the couple other times they’ve done this, she grimaces while working.

“You’re gonna stain your blouse, ma'am.”

“Believe it or not, I got this knock-off second-hand for twenty bucks. I can deal with fussing over stains and throwing it in the trash if it means you don’t have to worry about a nasty scar and possible infection.” Flickering her gaze up to meet his, halfway through with the stitches, she finds Frank looking at her with a curiously keen expression. She licks her lips and re-focuses. “So, does handsome have a name?”

“Not yet, no. Haven’t given it much thought…. Actually got a favor to ask.”

“…It wouldn’t have to do with dog-sitting, would it?” Karen ties off the thread, he passes the scissors.

“Two days is all I’m askin’.”

She sighs and hands the needle back before peering down at the dog deciding in this particular moment to lay on her feet. “Do you have any preference on dog food?”

 

* * *

 

_week three–_

 

“Thanks for getting a table outside,” Karen says apologetically after they alert her with a wave.

She almost hadn’t shown up at all, but that would make it the fourth time they’ve had to reschedule for her terrible planning skills, and, impromptu dog presence or not, she could manage today. Considering she had no legitimate excuse not to, she’d just feel like an ass otherwise.

Trish is too surprised by the pit-bull at her side to jump up for a half-hug like usual, so Karen simply pulls out the seat across and ties the leash around the chair’s metal arm.

Malcolm grins. “Didn’t know you had a dog.”

“Ah, I don’t. I’m looking after him for a friend,” she shrugs casually.

The other two exchange a look, Malcolm’s ease becoming tainted by confusion after catching onto Trish’s suspicious mood. It’s innocent, really – after Midland Circle, the two blondes had kept in touch, and Karen quickly deduced while striking up the new friendship that Trish was just as innately intrigued as her.

“Well, a colleague. They’re out of town and didn’t have anyone else. And who doesn’t love dogs?” She half-lies, further explanation enough to satisfy the interest as Trish smiles.

“What’s his name?”

After he finishes thoroughly sniffing the underside of the table, the dog sits and rests his head on Karen’s thigh. “He… doesn’t have one. Yet.”

Malcolm initiates the sideways glance this time. “He looks pretty big for that.”

“I know. Weird, right?” Karen shakes her head and picks up a menu pointedly. “So what’s good here?”

 

* * *

 

_week six–_

 

It’s becoming much more routine than not.

Somehow, two days for a one-off dog-sitting occurrence turns into once a week, which morphs into half of every week, and it used to be when Frank knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t be there for the pit-bull, but she’s starting to suspect it’s more of a preventative measure than not these days. She doesn’t mind.

The dog takes to her instantly, and she wonders how much of that is from herself and how much is because of Frank’s own relaxation around her and his constant presence that lingers within her apartment – the mug he washes himself that’s perpetually sitting in the dish rack, the extra civilian clothes thrown aside in her spare closet just in case, the slight musk different from her vanilla candles that clings to the couch he manages to use more often than her. Whatever the origin of it is, Karen likes to think she’s more than earned the way he jumps up affectionately every time they stop by now.

She’s bought him a box of toys kept in the corner, a set of bowls and a bag of food that stays here permanently after she and Frank gave up passing it back and forth when they gave up pretending the dog hadn’t accepted her place as a second home, and she’d even bought him a bed she managed to squeeze next to her desk, although he rarely uses it. Like now, as he slinks over sleepily to curl up on her feet. He was forming a habit with that.

So much for moving anytime soon.

She glances down at him fondly.

“…You’re dating this ‘work friend’, aren’t you?” Trish asks, lifting her hands to make finger-quotes around the moniker. Her wine glass sloshes precariously from the movement.

Karen rolls her eyes.

The unfortunate downside of the dog practically moving in as though she and Frank have an unofficial shared custody arrangement going on was the fact that she couldn’t easily hide everything when someone stopped by. Hadn’t even thought to, actually, and that would be a dangerous thing if she didn’t trust her friends so much. She’d gotten lucky with Foggy, though. He’d only been by once and accepted her excuses readily.

The balancing act of work and attempting to find a new apartment with Marci so they could, in her words, ‘formally move-in together’ was enough to keep him completely distracted.

Trish continues on with a tilted head. “How serious is it? Because you’ve had that dog almost every time I see you this past month and that’s just not normal, Kare. You need to let me vet whoever you’re dating.”

“You’re not vetting him–”

“So it is a guy.”

At her friend’s triumphant look, Karen sighs and takes another sip of wine. “We’re not dating, he travels a lot. And I just love the dog – it’s like I get to live out the fantasy of my six-year-old self,” she jokes. “But that’s all.”

“Mhm. Okay…. I’m gonna figure it out, though. Ten bucks I guess the right guy before he bothers to give that cute dog a name.”

She bites back a laugh, shaking her head. “Fine, deal.”

 

* * *

 

_week eight–_

 

“You have to give him a name,” Karen admonishes as soon as she opens the door.

Frank closes and locks the deadbolt behind her without having to look back. “I’m workin’ on it.”

“You wait too long and he’s only going to respond to ‘dog’. Which, by the way, makes everyone look at me funny whenever I say it – even strangers give me those judgy looks every time I walk him. He’s like two years old, it’s not normal.”

Frank gives the excited pit-bull a thorough ear rub while she hunts down the leash and latest box of treats. In her defense, they’d been on sale, and they were a super organic raw foods kind the dog could only benefit from. Or so the label professed. “Thank you, ma'am. Again,” he replies softly.

She smiles as she sets the dog’s belongings on the counter for him to grab easily later. “You don’t have to keep thanking me, he basically lives here…. But, it is nice, so you’re welcome.”

After he nods, they pause for a moment in silence before her eyes catch on a patch of shadow that doesn’t match the rest. Reaching over, she lifts his cap up enough to fully see the split above his brow, stretching in a fine slash along to his hairline.

“Should I ask?”

“Minor run-in with boxing enthusiasts.”

She snorts, crossing her arms. “Are you hungry? I was about to get take-out.”

“I could eat.”

 

* * *

 

_week nine–_

 

A cold snap in the night prompts the trees to start shedding their colorful leaves, blankets of yellow and red covering the sidewalks before they can fully die into dull shades of brown. The dog stops to smell nearly every pile but neither of them mind. Frank’s in no rush, which is a miracle unto itself – instead, he’d left her stunned for a solid couple seconds as he knocked on her door at the cusp of 5AM, two steaming cups of coffee in hand with an offer to walk the pit-bull together.

She’d readily agreed.

Karen stretches an arm over her head with a yawn as they loop back near her apartment, sore from her second all-nighter this week. It was definitely one time too many and her aching back wouldn’t stop reminding her of that fact.

“Should’ve brought you more coffee,” he comments, throwing the empty cups away in a nearby trashcan.

It tugs her lips into a smirk. “That would just make me wired and manic, and I intend on crashing for twelve hours straight after reporting in for my damn staff meeting, thank you very much. This walk is infinitely better.”

As she says it, though, she yawns again, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself. She almost startles when Frank presses a hand between her shoulder blades, but his touch is warm and heavy. It’d be recklessly lulling, the way his thumb rubs soothing circles along a notch in her spine, but the mere fact that he’s the one doing it sets every nerve underneath her coat alive.

Karen blinks wide, suddenly very awake. She clears her throat. “I’m naming your dog.”

He looks sideways at her. “You’re what now?”

“I’m going with Max. It means great, or maybe the greatest, or something like that. And he just looks like a Max, don’t you think?”

Shaking his head, Frank’s grin shows teeth as he holds back a laugh. “Let me get this straight, ma'am. You’re naming my dog?”

“I think if I took the issue to any court, they’d agree he’s half my dog now,” she points out. “So, yes. I am.”

A chuckle bursts forth. His hand slides up until he’s curling a loose grip over her shoulder, finger tapping a steady beat against the edge of her coat’s collar. Karen leans against him instinctively. “Max, huh? …Not bad.”

“It’ll grow on you. I started practicing it last night and he’s already accepted it, haven’t you, Max?”

When the pit-bull lifts his head, slobber rolling out of his mouth, she grins pridefully at Frank. He shakes his head again, a lame last attempt at protest, but the grin stretches his lips ever wider, crinkling at the corner of his eyes doing nothing to hide his good humor. She’s convinced him. It calms the yearning butterflies that began dancing within her stomach at his touch.

They stop to part at the corner of her block, Frank taking the leash from her and Max moving easily to press against his side instead, but they linger as she reaches with gentle fingers to trace one of the bruises completing a rather abstract painting of purple across the contours of his face. “You gonna sleep this off, too?”

“Surveilling someone soon,” is all he says.

Karen purses her lips in exasperation, holding his gaze. He lifts an eyebrow after a long moment. She sighs. “Be careful.”

“Always am.”

“That’s hard to believe when you keep coming back varying shades of beat the hell up, Frank.”

He smirks, adjusting his hoodie. “I’ll see ya.”

“Yeah, I’ll be here.”

With a fast press of lips to her temple, he’s crossing the street with Max, disappearing around the corner ahead after another minute. Her breath puffs white against the air when she exhales hard and turns away.

Trish standing up from in front of her steps drops an ice-cold bucket of shock over her entire frame. The other blonde’s got her eyes narrowed, but she leans casually against the railing. “And to think I came over ready to guess your mysterious dog owner was one of the geeks from your paper’s political section…. So who picks up the tab for that ten bucks?”

 

* * *

 

_week twelve–_

 

Shot glasses clang loudly as they slam them down on top of the long past scratched wood. Karen chases the burning tequila with a beer while Trish sucks on another lime idly. “So, you’re telling me–”

“Oh my god, don’t,” Karen groans.

“–you still haven’t banged yet?”

Pressing her chin against her palm, elbow propped against the bartop’s edge, she tries not to whine out of uncomfortable frustration that the high amount of alcohol currently circling through her veins was only enhancing with each passing minute. “Every time. You realize you ask this every time we meet up for drinks, right? It’s been three weeks, you really gotta let this go.”

“I’m just having an incredibly hard time wrapping my head around you having that – just look at him, Kare – and… nothing?! There’s something wrong with you.”

“You’re forgetting a very important fact,” she says seriously. Trish squints over. “That’s not possible between us.”

The other blonde blinks once before chuckling, staring over with complete disbelief. “Oh, God! You’re in more denial than I thought. Listen, girlfriend to girlfriend advice, okay. That man, the big bad Pun–” Karen shushes harshly. “The big bad murderer or not,” she drawls in a voice hushed without any actual drop of decibels, “he cares about you. A lot. And by a lot, I mean–”

“Don’t just say 'a lot’ again.”

“Just look at everything big-picture here for a minute,” Trish shifts tune suddenly, gesturing with her hands. She struggles to follow the rapid motions. “You’re one of two people in this entire world that he listens to and willingly talks to, right? You told me so yourself. And he’s saved you, what’d you say, like four times now? Jesus. And on top of that, you scare him shitless with your superhuman bravery, kudos, but he’s still got your back because he cares that fucking much to not try being a controlling asshole. And– what was I missing?”

Rubbing her forehead for a moment, Karen waits for her to let it go, hopes for it actually as she presses her head further into her palm away from the blurrily blinding neon lights in the window to the right, only for Trish to snap her fingers.

“Right! And you’re co-parenting a dog.”

“Parenting sounds…wrong.”

That makes Trish pause. “Co-raising?”

“Co-habiting?”

“That can’t be the right use of that word,” Trish says, face twisting in thought. She waves a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. You get my point. You own a dog together. Shit, I’ve never been at the pet stage with anyone. That’s a huge deal.”

Sighing, Karen tries and fails to straighten her butt on the stool, head lolling in the other direction. “I really shouldn’t have been that sharing with you…. It’s not that simple.”

“But you want it to be.”

“Doesn’t matter what I want,” she replies immediately.

A fierce smirk curves Trish’s lips. “What you want for yourself is all that matters. Fuck everything else, okay? You care about him, he cares about you, just be happy. And why,” she turns suddenly, dropping her arms on top of the bar with an annoyed eye at the rack of liquor across from them, “am I always having to tell everyone that? This city, I swear.”

Karen just pats her friend’s back and tries not to pass out as the shots kick in.

 

* * *

 

_week fourteen–_

 

There’s a nasty cord of a scar along the bend of his ribs and she traces it absently as he kneels between her knees to check a shallow gash at her shoulder. The cheery yellow light over her sink bounces dimly within the confines of her shower tiles as she sits on the edge of the tub and holds her hair off to the side, tilting her head away slightly so he can work. She tries not to notice the cheap soap that she’s come to comfortably associate so distinctly with him and him alone after every inhale.

Frank swipes an alcohol swab near the edge of her wound. She hisses behind her teeth.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay.” Karen moves her fingers to a half-moon of scar tissue hardly visible at the top of his abdomen. “How’d you get this one? I don’t think I’ve noticed it before.”

“Got shot, second tour. Hurt like a son of a bitch but first time always does. Or so they say,” he shares, pressing a bandage against her skin.

“Sounds like a stupid saying.”

Frank smirks. “Haven’t really tested the theory yet, ma'am.”

“Let’s keep that at never,” she replies, and there’s a smile lifting her lips, but the words are heavy with imploring, a plea after safety. One of his hands stays at her shoulder, the other moving to rest with loose fingers on-top of her thigh.

When he pulls his head back to meet her gaze, she feels like drowning in the concern softening every line from his face. “What’re your thoughts on a protective vest?”

She nearly laughs. “I banged into a pipe, Frank.”

“After knocking out a crazed junkie tryin’ to hurt you.”

“I know what you’re trying to do here, but you’re only making me sound more pathetic for being the one to hurt myself,” she grumbles with a tease.

The humor snaps out of the air as soon as his hand opens, brushing over her jeans to hold onto her knee with something akin to an assurance. Karen doesn’t think the way his fingers curl around the back of her thigh is intentionally much of anything, but it steals her breath, wiping her mind blank for a minute as his eyes flicker between hers, bright and vulnerable. “This is the second time in a week someone’s come after you.”

“And it’s the fourth time I’ve seen you with your shirt off cleaning up fresh scrapes at my sink,” she points out with a huff, nodding to his bare chest. Her touch lifts from his abdomen to hover over shrapnel pricks littering the line of his collarbone. “Where was your vest?”

“At the cleaners,” he answers dryly.

Despite everything, Karen giggles.

And, despite everything, Frank kisses her.

It’s sweet, gentle, until her hand’s clutching at his neck and he pulls on her knee to slide her to the edge of the tub, leaning forward to mold them together. His touch is bruising, demanding, tracing every inch of her until she lets loose and clings back. When she gasps, his mouth only slants to find her neck, sucking a mark below her ear. “Fuck, Frank.”

She could fall, position precarious, but she only wraps her arms around him more firmly, blunt nails digging against the rippling muscles of his back. Pressing against her, she lifts one of her legs around his, and the momentary friction causes him to thrust instinctively. They moan in unison.

Max scratches at the door.

Slowly, Frank lifts his head. She kisses him soundly before he can begin to say anything. “Did you feed him?” She asks, a whisper barely a breath from his lips.

“Didn’t think I’d be here long enough for that,” he admits, and there’s a trembling undercurrent of longing in his voice she aches to explore.

Max scratches again, whining low and long this time. Karen bites her lip with a fast smile. “Do you… want to stay?”

He nods. “Gotta untangle and feed the dog first.”

“Right. Of course.”

A beat passes. Her spine arches as his hand slides up her thigh.

Max barks.

Laughing, she ducks her head and Frank reluctantly loosens his touch. “Okay, okay. Just a second, Max!”


End file.
